


Superstitious

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gore, Horror, Human!zenyatta, Modern AU, Violence, Vomiting, demon haunting a house, oni!genji, spooks and romance oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 19:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16729521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: Not one to believe in ghost stories, Angela buys the house. She even smiles at the thought of dealing with a pesky ghost, but strange things begin to happen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! This is my first attempt at the horror genre but I’m quite happy with how it turned out. It was suppose to be a short one shot but it ran away from me. There will be five parts in total. It’s not going to be the usual romance and fluff, but I hope you like it!

The house is sold for far too little, considering its value. It takes up a nice corner, with a wooden, high raised fence. A little recluse, but Angela is certain she can change that on her days off. An older, Victorian style building takes up the little lot. Quaint and cozy, she’s ready to move in. **  
**

Angela is not superstitious. She can’t help but laugh when the realtor tells her they have difficulties selling the house because it’s haunted. The warning the woman gives her is firm and unwavering. It’s not really fit for one person to live in, as families before have been driven out in the middle of the night, or so the realtor tells her.

She buys it anyways. The move will bring her into the suburb outside the city, closer to the hospital that recently hired her. The house is set on the outskirts of the little community, isolated with weathered fences in a dark corner street. Perfectly in between.

A smile breaks out of her mouth at the thought of dealing with a pesky ghost.

The paint on the outside peels and reveals patches of rough wood, completely uncared for. A little hard work and a bright coat of paint will take the gloom out of the building. Perhaps it’s only haunted because no one else has bothered to dwell within and manage it properly.

It has two levels. A trim outlines the house in dull gray. If touched up with a lighter white or cream, it will be much more homey. Thankfully, the kitchen and living room are finished, but Angela will have to do some work on the upstairs bathroom and bedroom. A few cement steps lead to a dark basement, but it’s a small, secure size that leaves no room to store fear It was probably used to store potatoes from how old the foundation is.

Her first night within its wall is restless. The bed frame is shoved up against one wall, but nothing is properly set up in the bedroom. She needs to clean the floors and paint. The bathroom functions well enough but she’d like to put in tile and granite counter tops.

The new environment is taking time to settle around her person. It’s simply a new place. She should be asleep by now, as work in the morning will not wait for her to get out of bed, but she tosses and turns.

As she twists upon her bed once more, Angela’s eye sweep over the room in her agitated movement. Her vision catches something dark, looming in the shadow of her doorway. The black silhouette looks exactly like a person. During her swift movement, she looks away from it for a heartbeat. A gasp fills her throat as she whips her head back.

There is nothing. Her doorway is empty.

Her heart flutters once before settling. Embarrassment burns in her chest as she gets out of bed, and crosses the room. In the late night, she shuts the door. Then on an afterthought, she turns the little knob that locks it.

“Relax,” she breathes only to herself as she slips back under the covers. She rolls her eyes at the sound of her reassuring herself like a scared child, but speaks again. “Calm down and go to sleep.”

She grabs her phone. Finding a video that plays the sound of calming ocean waves, Angela forces her limbs to stay still. Gradually her mind empties over the gentle, artificial noise of the sea.

When her eyelids lift in the morning, the door is slightly open. Only a crack, but it still creates a puzzlement within her. As she leaves her room, ready for work, she firmly closes the door before descending the stairs.

A mental note cements in her mind to check the door handle when she has the time.

*

The hospital keeps her mind busy and her energy drained. On a few blessed days off, she goes to the hardware store and returns with buckets of paint and tile samples. First, she cleans the house from top to bottom. It keeps her fingers busy as she listens to music. It’s almost therapeutic.

A few of her sponges or rags go missing. It wasn’t because they were misplaced as Angela knows she set them down right there. However, when she comes back to retrieve them, one or two is gone. Puzzlement overlaps in her mind but it does little to stop her from warming up to the house.

Inside, it’s mostly dust and, unfortunately, one dead mouse. The walls outside are rough and sun bleached but a new trim adds life and a bright color makes it not so spooky.

When applying a new coat to the kitchen walls, a bucket suddenly tips over at her side. The tarp spread out across the floor catches it all, saving her from frustration of more work and clean up. She quickly sets the can upright, but notes the distance between her and the can before it spilled. No part of Angela bumped or touched the paint can. The inches between her and the can makes it impossible.

The question doesn’t linger for long. She doesn’t think much of it until later, for she finds a new touch of paint on her cheek. It almost looks as if someone playfully smeared blue across her skin. Her own hands are stained but she distinctly never touched her face with the faded blue.

Angela washes it away without a second thought. The paint can is put away.

Weeks stretch by in a constant shift of working at the hospital to redecorating and painting the house. It keeps her focused and ambitious. The paint stains on her hands aren’t too terrible. Everyday, the house becomes a warm, welcoming home.

In between all of her work, unexplainable happenings keep popping up. Paint brushes go missing, and she may or may not find them in the kitchen sink the next morning. Somehow, the bristles drip wet paint in the early dawn. Her samples of tile and patterns for the bathroom floor are always misplaced. Sometimes, her jewelry will be found on the counter downstairs instead of on her dresser.

Whenever she places an item down, Angela takes to staring at it firmly for a second or two. The image of the placed item cements in her mind before she comes back to it. There is no reason as to why it sometimes goes missing. She knows it’s not her forgetfulness or absent attention. It becomes increasingly frustrating, as if dealing with a house that only looks to hinder its own improvement.

Angela chastises herself if she begins to think about hauntings and ghosts. She has no explanation for why things are mysteriously moving around, but it is not ghosts.

Her work finally moves to the upstairs. The first task she sets herself to is removing the cheap and grimy sheet linoleum from the bathroom floor. It can easily be peeled off; the nails stamping it to the edges of the floor only need to be removed. She imagines a rich brown tile with a white backlash on the bathroom counter. The job takes her half an afternoon before she’s called in for an emergency surgery. Leaving the half torn floor of the bathroom, Angela doesn’t waste a moment in getting to the hospital.

She returns well after midnight. Her shoulders are heavy with a lost life. Four souls were in a car crash, and she was tasked with the youngest one. Her heartbeat was still beating on the operation table, but there was too much damage for even Angela to fix. She lost the patient before she even really become her patient.

The other three were relatively fine. After Angela took care of them, they rested. The nurses told her to go home, there was no need for her to be there anymore.

She doesn’t bother flicking on the light switch. In the 3 AM moonlight, she pours wine into a glass, and curls up on the corner end of the couch. She drinks her cup gone but still stares at the wall. These things happen, they have before and they will again, but her heart still mourns. She mourns the one she couldn’t save and she mourns the family of the young girl.

It won’t stop her from continuing her life saving work, but it still weighs heavily in her chest. Tomorrow, she’ll hold up the weight better. No tears fall but she closes her eyes. Clutching the soft throw blanket to her chest, she breathes harshly into the fabric.

At last, she begins to doze off. In the last few seconds of her fleeing consciousness, an exhale of a cool breath touches her ear.

*

Stirring against her pillow, Angela brushes hair out of her face. The mattress is soft and the blankets are warm. A cozy paradise tempts her into never leaving it.

Her heart remembers the day before. It doesn’t slow, but it still remembers.

Angela bolts upright. Sweeping the room that she didn’t walk into last night, she pats the covers once, confirming she’s here. Sleepwalking has never been an issue in her life. She only had one glass of wine. She has never been so lightweight that that would have made her forget walking up the stairs.

Ripping back the covers, unsure of what she expects to see, she finds herself still in her scrubs. The cold floor removes any lingering sleep as she steps upon it. Swiftly, she walks to the dresser. The tabletop mirror doesn’t reveal anything startling. Only dark circles remain underneath her eyes where her makeup rubbed off. A wild mess of her ponytail tries to hold together as half of her hair escapes it. She goes over her arms and legs, wondering if she’ll find black marks in the shape of hands.

Nothing. No chastising follows her next quiet thought, but she sweeps aside the idea of a ghost tucking her into bed. It’s much too ridiculous.

She had a long, hard day, and then a long, hard night. She was trying to not cry for the patient she had lost. It was a mental exhaustion. It had to be. There is nothing else Angela will accept.

Rubbing her eyes, she releases the tension in her body with a deep breath. It washes out of her system as she begins planning what to do with the day. Thankfully, there is more then enough that must be sorted out within this old house.

Angela steps to the bathroom. Already imagining hot water turning her skin pink, it will disperse the heaviness to her person. Her bare foot steps onto a rough texture. When she looks down, her blood freezes in her veins.

The sheet linoleum Angela had only half removed is entirely gone. The constructed bathroom floor remains. Not even the nails pinning the edges remain in the floorboards, as if they never existed. The sheet itself is nowhere to be found. How does a bathroom length of whole linoleum simply up and disappear?

Angela’s mask of horror hides the rushing of her brain. Could someone have broken in and stole it? The idea rejects itself become it becomes fully form. Her jewelry and appliances are still here. No one wants to steal a grimy sheet of bathroom linoleum.

But who removed it? And why?

Without thought, Angela blurts out, “Who’s there?”

Her voice dies as quickly as it rose. Standing still in anticipation, Angela watches and listens in the gray morning light. Only silence answers her question as the bathroom stands ready for tile to be placed.

Superstitious fool, she thinks to herself.

It suddenly washes through her. A cold draft of unmoving air. Goosebumps spread across her skin as her muscles shiver. A shaking breath falls out of her mouth at the overwhelming sensation. She stands still.

The hair on the back of her neck stands up. There is no explanation for how she knows, but someone is standing behind her. The sunlight through the window offers no hint of a shadow just behind her feet. No sound of movement echoes.

Fear encases her heart in a cold fist. Frozen on the spot, she gulps a breath into her lungs.

The cool air gathers at Angela’s backside. She stares forward, unable to turn around and see what awaits. Her heartbeat pounds in her chest. It hammers against her sternum as she awaits her fate with stiff limbs.

The presence of a different body is inches from her spine. A cold breath brushes the shell of her right ear. The noise registers so sharply within her mind that the terror gripping her finally breaks. She whirls around.

Her bedroom is empty. However, in the fright building within her mind, she looks down. Indents in the carpet reveal a set of footsteps larger than her own, standing just behind her. Two large points jut out of the pair of feet, like talons or claws extending past the toes.

A hand covers her mouth to muffle a core shaking gasp. In seconds, dashes out of her bedroom and downstairs. She almost trips on the last step as she races to the door, heart in her throat. The handle doesn’t swing open fast enough.

The breath brushing against her ear stays with her as Angela stops on the front porch. The essence almost seems to burn her flesh. Her hand cups that side of her head, still reeling.

She looks back to the door she slammed behind her, and the new trim upon the old house. Her heart continues to drum inside of her, drowning out any other thought but one.

Angela is not superstitious, but _someone_  is in that house with her. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghost paint notes is as close as they’re gonna get to letters in this AU.

“You need to stop working yourself so hard, Doc,” Jack says. His eyes are hard, but concern is covered within the blue depths. “If you didn’t exhaust yourself, you wouldn’t be so jumpy.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Jack.” Her words don’t mean to come out so harshly, but it doesn’t phase him. It only wrinkles his brow even more. Sighing deeply, Angela sips her tea. Nearly hunched over it, she cups the warm mug in her hands. The warmth fills her palms and steadies her fingers.

She went to an old friend. The chill in her bones didn’t lift until she spoke with him, but by then, she had no idea what to say. He was more than inviting as she spent the night on his couch, but the early morning light threatens the inevitable. She has to go back to the house eventually.

There was no hiding how wide her eyes were, or how she follows Jack around his kitchen, needing that constant presence of another living person. At first, he demanded to know if someone had hurt her or threatened her. She reassured him quickly but there was no other explanation for her strange behavior.

White takes over what was blonde hair upon his head. There is a no-nonsense kind of aura to his strong stature even in his late age. Their friendship has survived a long time. They know each other. He’s hard boiled but the worry he’s silently expressing is all too easy to see. She’s sensible and hardy. Seeing her spooked is flooding him with worry.

She told him she thought someone was trying to break into her house. No one was found of course. She lies about being frightened by what could have been lurking outside and had to see him.

There is no telling if he believes her.

Jack takes a drink from his own cup. He works his jaw for a moment before speaking.

“Are you still fixing up your house?” his rough voice grumbles.

“Yes, but I’ve got a lot done so far.” Angela jumps on the topic change. “I just have to get the bathroom finish and paint the walls upstairs. I already have tile picked out. I just need to call a company to have them install it.”

Jack nearly scowls before he says, “Don’t call anyone. I’ll come over and help you. We can get it done in a day without spending all that money on men who just sit around anyways.”

Emotion fills her throat as a smile tugs her lips upwards. It’s his worry and her fright causing him to extend such an offer, but having another body in the house could do wonders.

It may not take away the lingering feeling in her chest. The thought of being watched or stalked still hangs heavily over her as she can still feel the breath of air against her ear. There is no mistake. There is no doubting what she felt and heard.

But maybe Jake can make it feel like it was nothing. He can make her believe that her weary mind was playing tricks on her senses.

“That would be nice,” Angela looks to the older, grizzly man. White stubble makes him appear rough and mean, but he nods with finality.

She can go back to the house with someone else. She won’t be scared.

*

Walking inside her own house has never made Angela feel so anxious before. She doesn’t hide it well as Jack asks her to point out where she thought the burglar was trying to get in. One window at the back door beside the kitchen seems sketchy enough. Jack wanders around her house and searches the yard for signs Angela knows won’t be there. He even checks the basement to be sure no one is hiding away.

His concern doesn’t ease up, but it shifts to helping her more intently. A dark thought darkens her mood that perhaps Jack is worried about her mind or emotional state, but the breath against her ear was as real as her own. The shell of her ear tingles at the thought of feeling something so cold again.

She still doesn’t tell him about feeling someone’s breath against her.

Jack’s presence softly reassures her tense state more than she ever could have hoped for. Unfortunately, the guest bedroom is empty as she still needs to buy more furnishing, but Jack waves off her concern. Her couch is not the worst thing he’s slept on.

For two days, Angela watches the dark corners of any room while Jack helps her measure tile and spread out thinset mortar. The extra help and energy he puts into manual labor with backbreaking focus stuns Angela. As betraying as his white hair is, there is liveliness in his bones still. Once the tile is set and the grout is spread out, all that’s left to do is leave it to dry.

The exhausting work leaves Angela without time to ponder what scared her out of her own house. She doesn’t stop to think about standing in the doorway of the bathroom, frozen in fear as someone stood just behind her.

They eat takeout one night while watching the news. Jack complains and throws comments to the screen as Angela hides her amusement behind a box of orange chicken.

His exterior is hard, but he’s like her. He knows what’s true and right. They both don’t indulge in fantasy. They see what’s right in front of them. Although, Angela does hope beyond reason.

This is different. Perhaps his sensible being cleaned out whatever was lurking behind Angela’s back. Nothing too bizarre happens, aside from the few tools that are wildly misplaced. She claims it was her forgetting where she set things, but Jack only looks at her with increasing worry.

He leaves on the morning she goes back to work. His strict voice orders her to call him if anything spooks her again. Angela thanks him repeatedly for all of his work in finishing the bathroom that she should have done alone. He only accepts her gratitude when she swears to call him if anything happens.

Her shift pulls her out of her head as she speaks with patients and goes over paperwork. It grounds her to the moment. This is real. Her work is real and it’s healing does wonders for those who depend on her.

She almost forgets when she comes back to the house later in the evening. Standing on the tile in the bathroom, the new, secure space doesn’t pour apprehension into her gut. The tan color plays beautiful with the blue walls and white countertops and accents. It’s complete. The bathroom is beautiful and easy on her eyes.

She settles down on her couch after dinner. As the T.V. blares on with background noise, Angela searches her address on her laptop. A house this old must have history, and perhaps, an explanation.

Several days go by with nothing interesting in her research except the family that built it originally. It was remodeled several times but the construction was always half way done until the 1840’s. The home was completely redesigned but kept the same foundation.

A small, blurry picture of a newspaper article in the far archives of a dead company says that a family from Japan built it. It tells her nothing about what happened to the family or of any strange occurrences within the house. The article mostly revolves around the hauntings going on within.

Angela even calls the realtor who sold the house, but she can’t tell her anything new.

After a late night, Angela shuts her laptop lid to the news of a murder on the T.V. screen. They mention briefly that they think it’s another homicide committed by the Reaper. Such a ridiculous name for a known serial killer, but the news love to play up such events. They report that it was just outside of the city. Angela turns it off. There are enough things to worry about.

A weekend finally opens up for her to repaint the walls of her bedroom. The dull, faded white needs to be retouched. Angela debates between a soft sunshine yellow or a gentle gray. Either is a cozy, safe color.

On Sunday morning, she manages to pushes all of her furniture off of the walls and lay down tarp. The primer takes half of the morning. A paint roller drips yellow as Angela applies the first coat. Two walls already brighten the room with sunshine. Satisfied with the hard work, she leaves it be a moment to make lunch.

Since Jack’s visit, Angela has been more particular about eating and sleeping properly. Her senses didn’t lie to her that day but there is no need to stress her body out more than necessary. Taking breaks from work and the headache inducing smell of paint is strictly followed as well.

After eating and taking an hour to read a book she’s been meaning to finish, Angela returns to the half painted bedroom. She kneels down. Undoing the lid to the paint can, she pours out fresh yellow into the paint tray. The roller soaks it in before she take it, and turns to the wall.

Angela stills. The primer remains on an untouched wall save for one spot. A single handprint in yellow takes over the space, eye level with her kneeled position. Lowering the roller as to not drip yellow paint, she gulps down several deep breaths. Wideness takes over her eyes as she leans forward. Unable to blink, shock takes over her mind. Slowly, she raises her own hand.

Her fingers hover over the middle of the print, finding it larger than her own. A man’s handprint, if she had to guess. Slowly, she presses her palm to it entirely.

The paint is still wet.

Ripping her hand away, Angela whips her head behind her. There is no thought of what she expects to find, but the bedroom is exactly as it was before she went downstairs. For a moment, she stalls her lungs in anticipation. If another breath sounds in her ear, she’s braced for it.

Silence joins the pounding of her heartbeat in her eardrums. The fists she didn’t know she was holding slowly loosens as she looks back to the hand print. Her fingertips reach out once more. Hovering over the mark, she parts her lips in anger and fear.

“Who are you?” she demands on a trembling breath. This is a joke, or there really is someone hiding in her house. She tenses, as if her body is a wire coiled up and waiting on a springlock. Nearly hunching her shoulders as her sternum holds back the hammering of her heart, Angela braces herself.

Minutes pass, or many even seconds. When she can’t take her own fear anymore, Angela opens her eyes suddenly, like ripping off a band aid. There is no cool air, or breaths against her ear.

There is only new paint upon the wall. As if it dripped down from the initial handprint, the liquid falls into unmistakable writing.

源氏

The symbols hold no meaning to Angela. She almost doesn’t dare to look away and grab her phone for fear of the bizarre scene disappearing from the wall. A mixture of relief and uncertainty fills her chest at the symbols remaining in place. Taking a picture, she insures it’s saved. The physical evidence will keep her from questioning her own sanity.

Angela looks back to the handprint, and the writing underneath it. Clutching her phone to her chest, she memorizes it. The scraggly, jagged paint seeps through her ribs. Fear trickles into her veins but a strong and stubborn will takes over her heart.

Whatever the two symbols mean, she will discover it.

*

She finishes painting the room after she double checks that the photo is saved. That night, she takes her laptop to the couch again. The search takes her far too long to figure out the symbols are in Japanese writing, but the meaning slowly unfolds before her. As she taps on the keyboard, her breath waits in her lungs.

Just before the hour is too late, a website translates the words. Her heartbeat picks up as a she stalls for half a moment. Then, braving forward, her finger presses the command to do so.

Angela reads it once, before moving her lips to pronounce it.

“Genji…”

The strange word leaves her unbalanced. Whatever spooky warning or threat she was braced for is not so. For a moment, she worries that the website is useless to her but searches up the word.

Angela stills when she comes upon Japanese baby names and name meaning websites. There are even a few articles about ‘The Tale Of Genji’ that displays a book cover.

She leans back once it absorbs into her mind. Looking across the dark space in the T.V. room, as the sun set while she was engrossed in her research, Angela inhales deeply. No goosebumps rise upon her skin, nor does a cold draft cause her to shiver. Yet, she half expects to see a shadowy figure in the hallway leading to the front door.

“Genji,” she tests out loud. She almost curses herself for sounding so foolish, but she doesn’t stop just yet. “Is that who you are? Genji?”

She has only ever spoken directly to the  _someone_  within her house twice, but twice, she has been answered. The thought to turn the lights on crosses her mind but she doesn’t dare break whatever energy is rising. Only the light from the laptop screen douses her in safety.

The slow rise of her heartbeat quickens her breath. Goosebumps rise against her skin in seconds at the burst of a cold draft running through her. Angela fights the freeze settling over her bones, but it takes her once more.

Her eyes only look forward, over her laptop. Her lungs quiver. Another breath, not her own, echoes behind her. Instead of brushing against her ear, it stays behind her shoulders. as if minding it’s distance.

Suddenly, a gentle tug takes one strand of hair from her ponytail. Like a tease. The sensation breaks her from her frozen state to whirl around on the couch. The motion slides her laptop off her legs and onto its side. The shifting light reveals nothing as Angela stares at the empty space throughout the living room.

“Genji,” she says firmly, trying to cover her growing fright with anger, “Show yourself.”

The wave of bravo she summoned for that one demand fades as quickly as it arrived. The thought of beholding whatever disappears and moves things silently while causing her skin to crawl doesn’t hold so pleasant in her mind.

The energy dies away. Her unanswered order leaves Angela shaking and weary all at once. The cold disappears, allowing a thick warmth to replace it. The heaviness in the air only makes her want to get away from it. As if someone finally closed the door that was letting in all the cold.

Not someone. Genji.

The question of  _what_  takes that name haunts Angela’s dreams.

*

The days in the house fills with her speaking out loud and trying to find out anything more upon the mysterious foundations of which it’s built upon. If any sane person looked inside, they’d declare Angela has lost her reason. The thought of her own crazed behavior weighs heavily upon her conscious, but the presence around her person is unmistakable.

Genji talks back, but not directly. When she asks questions, a few taps on a distant wall will echo or a lock of her hair will be tugged. Yes or no answers is all she can get.

The tapping turns into what she can only describe as a friendly greeting. The first time she comes back home after the startling revelation of his name, one soft tap nearly startles her to death. The next day, she walks through the door with a tentative call of his name. A knock sounds after.

She doesn’t know what to make of it. She has never been a fan of horror movies, partly out of lack of respect for the horribly incorrect anatomy and askew details of gory scenes within them. In the few films she’s seen, they’ve always displayed an evil, vengeful spirit wanting only to torture whoever is foolish enough to stick around.

Caution takes over her every move within the house. A fit of paranoia and fear strikes her center at a terrible creature suddenly appearing to eat her, but she chases away those self induced nightmares.

An uncanny sense develops within her. Knowing when he’s in the room slowly begins to be a natural habit. It may only be because he wants to make himself known, or rather, felt. The goosebumps upon her skin warns her of an unnatural presence. When she sleeps out night, she worries about eyes watching but only feels them when she’s cooking in the kitchen. There is always privacy in the bathroom. She’s a little ashamed to admit she puts off showering for as long as possible as she doesn’t want to close her eyes when washing her hair.

A couple of weeks go by in this fashion. Jack calls, and asks how she’s doing. They discuss projects that need to be worked on but there is no mention from her tongue of the knocks or sudden drafts of cold air that Angela knows is caused by someone.

It’s almost an odd fantasy. It shouldn’t be indulge in, much less found as normal, but she simply doesn’t know what to make of it. Genji is, without question, scary. Multiple nightmares wake her in the dead of night of a dark hand reaching out to cover her mouth as a breath ghosts against her ear. She watches corners and fears of the moment the tense calm suddenly crashes into a horror movie.

But if Genji is malevolent, wouldn’t he have done something terrible by now? From what websites Angela could even consider credible, most mention that ghosts will scratch or drag people. He’s tug on her hair, but hasn’t thrown her down the stairs… yet.

This could be some terrible, evil plan of luring her into a sense of security before coaxing her to do something, like performing a ritual that allows him to take over her body—or whatever evil thing ghosts want. Genji hasn’t outright spoken to her without answering one of her questions. Even painting his name upon the wall was a response.

In a mixture of fear and determination, and wanting to note her mind is still steady, Angela buys candles.

They smell of salt and rivers. On a late night with no work tomorrow, she places them on the kitchen table. Five in a single line await her as the lights are turned off. Across the table, a small bowl of yellow paint rests with blank sheets of white paper spread out. She settles on a chair in the dark. Slowly, noting the sudden rise of goosebumps upon her skin, she strikes a match against the matchbox.

For a heartbeat, she stares at the single, yellow flame. This could invite the ghost to do whatever he wants to her. She may not see morning light. However, she had to chose this over the ouija board; and Angela is not buying a ouija board.

The match ignites the wicks, one by one. The candles hold small, flickering flames, casting back some of the darkness. Salt and freshwater touches her nose. Bracing herself for the unknown abyss she faces, Angela parts her lips.

“Are you here, Genji? If you are…” Her tongue stops as she exhales harshly. Her shaking fingers twist into the fabric of her jeans as she steadies herself.

“If you are, blow out the farthest candle to my right.”

Her heart beats three times. As she holds stiffly in the dark to keep herself from shaking, the light flickers with a hushed breath. Her jaw opens with a quiet gasp of fear, but she doesn’t flee.

Drawing another lungful, she asks, “Do you want to hurt me? If yes, blow out the second candle.”

It’s entirely possible that he could lie. If a ghost is capable of doing evil things, deceit must surely be one of them. It’s probably useless and foolish, but Angela waits for ten seconds before taking the still burning wick as a no.

“Do you want to use me in some way for an evil gain?” she asks, giving the same instructions for a reply.

Another ten seconds past without activity. Her heart still pounds but inch by inch, her tense fingers unfurl.

“Do you want to use me?”

Nothing.

“Do you… want something from me?”

Angela wasn’t even sure she’d get this far, but the lack of evil yeses leaves her a little deflated. The answers don’t hold too much value, as Genji could simply be lying. It does, however, make her feel slightly at ease. Slightly.

Slowly, Angela lights a new match and resets the one snuffed out wick. With five flickering flames, she steels herself once more.

“I want to ask you questions that don’t have yes or no answers. There is paint and paper here for you to use, if you can.” This sound like madness as it rolls off her tongue, but she continues forward.

“Why are you haunting this house?”

The trembling in her voice is contained, for now. Letting a rattling breath fill her chest, she closes her eyes. He has yet to do anything too apparent right in front of her. Hopefully, if she doesn’t watch, he can write something.

Silently counting to thirty seconds, she opens her eyes. Sharp fright takes over her at what awaits her vision, but there is only the candles, and the bowl of paint upon the table.

Angela stands slowly, leaning over the candles to peer at the papers across the table.

In plain English, scraggly letters, wet paint reflects the candlelight as it spells out: HOME

Home?

“This is your home?” she asks, then quickly adds, “Blow out the farther candle to my left if yes.”

It is snuffed out in half a second. Nearly buzzing with invisible energy, Angela looks at the word once more before working her tongue.

“Were you alive once? Blow out the next candle if yes.”

She holds her breath as a few seconds past by. The lack of an answer nearly chills her blood until, slowly, it goes out. As if he was debating on whether to answer or not.

“You were alive,” she nearly gasps. “That means you died and became…”

She stops at that, suddenly unsure of what exactly she’s dealing with. Nothing makes sense. It’s as if she’s trying to catch the smoke coming off of the candles. The fear infecting her center may or may not be needed. This could all be a sick game he’s playing with her, teasing her with lies.

Or maybe not.

“How did you die?” she asks softly.

Almost regretting doing so, she closes her eyes. The coolness in the air suddenly shifts. It chills her skin and causes shivers to break out within her body. She only counts to twenty seconds this time before opening her eyes.

A single sheet of paper waits right in front of her. Nearly startled backwards by its sudden presence, Angela takes a moment to take in the wet paint.

BROTHER

A few heartbeats later, Angela asks, “Brother?”

Not murder. Not killed. Not even knife or dagger is spelled out. Only that familiar term. Is he simply telling her about his family?

It crashes together violently in her mind.

“Did your brother kill you?” She almost doesn’t want to ask, but the burning desire to know pushes it past her lips.

In a violent breath of harsh wind, all of the candles die in a single swoosh. A small scream bursts out of Angela’s throat as she slaps a hand over her mouth. Nearly biting her bottom lip, her pulse thunders in her ears. In the darkness she remains frozen. Her eyes stay blind as they are unadjusted to the night. A paralyzing fear begins to play a thousand different ways that her life ends tonight.

Three seconds pass. The center candle suddenly flares out with a flame upon it’s wick. No match is ignited nor does Angela hear the scratching of one being lit. Blinking slowly, she watches the neighboring two wicks suddenly burst forth with flames. In the next moment, the end candles are burning as well.

Lowering her hand from her mouth, it shakes as she finds a new sheet of paper in front of her. She looks away reflectively in fear. Her courage is gathered in a heart thundering breath as she looks down.

In wet, yellow paint, she reads: ANGELA


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji is terribly rude to Angela’s guest.

The moment she thinks she’s grasping exactly what Genji is, he slips through her fingers. It’s a constant, tossed back and forth motion that she stays in between. Terror locks her inside with no hope of escape. Curiosity, and something more, pushes her to know what he is.

Some small piece of hope blooms in the sunny thought that he’s not as fearsome as her nightmares make him out to be. She still has yet to see any true, physical evidence of his person. Conjuring a body may be impossible for him, but couldn’t he project an image of himself at least? Physical touch isn’t difficult for him; he proves that over and over again.

There is no concrete direction she can take. For a few days following the candles and her question, she doesn’t dare ask him anything. The paper with her name smeared in yellow paint leaves a jumbled mess inside of her brain.

She’s not superstitious, but she has no idea what Genji wants or plans to do. The little spook session was threatening and unclear all at once. The relighting of the candles still puzzles her, as if it was a silent apology. Her written name sends tremors into her rib cage. The someone that she can’t see but witnesses do terrifying things knows her. He knows her name.

If it’s a bright red flag signalling her coming demise, Angela doesn’t know how to read it. Perhaps, he simply wanted to address her. To show that he knows who she is.  

Did he just want to acknowledge her, as she does him?

It’s a quiet hope, but she clings to it.

The next few days blur into work and resting. Desperately, his name waits on her tongue when she speaks to Jack, but she still doesn’t tell about the ghost. The smallest part of her worries that she’s encouraging her own hallucinations. If she’s the only one who can hear or see any of his effects, is he real? There’s a thousand things she could excuse Genji’s activity for. Living alone and without another living person to speak to could be fueling the spooks in her home.

After the fear in the candlelight ebbs, she gathers courage with silly questions. She asks and little taps upon the wall answer her. His favorite color is green. It almost makes her laugh to envision the creature in her head having such a mundane quality.

Her questions taper off throughout the day as work begins to exhaust her. She falls asleep once again on the couch. There is no breath she can remember but she wakes up in her bed. When she asks if he moved her, a soft tap echoes as a yes.

It chills her skin to imagine a dark form carrying her unconscious body up the stairs. Angela hesitates a moment more before asking why.

She doesn’t receive an answer until later that night. After she closes her laptop and rubs her tired eyes, she finds a white sheet of paper with wet paint. It reads: NEED REST

Her befuddlement rises. Not only from the two words, but from the fact that Angela stashed the paint cans away in the basement. When she checks, none are open.

She stares at the paper for a long minute. The past month recycles heavily through her mind. What may only be a fictional world or a terrifying truth nearly burns her mind in the question of which is true.

“Are you really here?” she asks out loud, in a sharp but tired tone. “I don’t even know if you’re real. If… if I’m not crazy.”

She speaks more to herself. Those words shouldn’t have entered into the air but they did. Angela stiffens in fear of a reaction. Standing in the entryway to her living room and where the stairs begin, her bones freeze.

As she braces for it, a cold draft chills her skin. Her entire will forces her breath to not tremble, but it doesn’t stop the shaking in her hands as they still grip the paper. Staring up the stairs, her back faces the open living room.

For the first time, footsteps sound before her. Carpet muffles the heavy tread before hardwood echoes it. Two parts of her fight. One longs to look back and see what may be the death of her. The other is tensing her legs to run out the door and never return to this nightmare.

In the end, she does nothing. Fear takes over her blood like ice. Her breath quickens until it fogs up in the coldness.

She gasps silently at the touch upon her right shoulder. A hand. It doesn’t grip or dig razor sharp claws into her skin. It simply stays. Resting physical weight, and an impression of a larger, dark hand of a man. Angela can’t mistake the cool touch seeping through the cloth of her shirt.

The fear upon her breaks slowly. The icicles jammed into the veins of her left arm shatter as she slowly raises it. She knows he can see her motion, or even sense it for that matter. Her fingers are in plain view.

Ever so carefully, as if cutting near the heart within a patient’s chest, Angela rests her fingers over the cool, dark hand. From the corner of her vision, the dark fingers twitch slightly at her touch but don’t retract. The cold soaks into her fingertips. The sharp impression of knuckles and unnatural flesh stays in her nerves.

“Genji?” she asks, as if afraid of severing what little bravery she has. Her brain still refuses to tell her muscles to more. The urge to turn her head and just see what is right behind her never gets through her nervous system.

As gentle as a spring breeze, a cool breath brushes against her ear.

Terror floods her heart and mind. In response, and to protect the sanity clinging to the edges of her consciousness, darkness rushes her eyes. An act of self defense causes her to drop.

She isn’t aware of someone catching her body before it can dully thud upon the hardwood.

*

“Thank you for making time to come see me,” Angela says graciously.

“Of course, Dr. Ziegler,” Tekhartha Zenyatta smiles as Angela opens the door to let him inside. “I am quite curious  of what more you have to tell me about the  _someone_  in your home.”

“Yes, I—Forgive me, come in and sit down. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?” Angela gestures for the monk to sit on the couch as she stops in the open entry to the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” he says. Angela stalls a moment more before settling on the other end of the couch. One cushion remains between them as they shift to face each other.

She can’t put her finger on it, but the monk’s presence calms her exceptionally. Maybe it’s from having another person in her home, whose presence is not a question of if they’re truly there or not.

After waking up in her own bed after certainly feeling the touch of a dark hand, she couldn’t continue to accept an unknown presence in her own home. It took some time, but she felt confident in contacting the Shambali. She’s not even sure what sort of religion they are, but when she spoke to Zenyatta, a strong impression urged her to tell him a part of what is going on.

He didn’t hesitate to arrange a time to visit her for the entire truth.

His dark skin is rich and healthy. Even darker eyes regard her with a calm, understanding empathy that she clings to. There is no hair upon his head. His frame seems to be light and fragile but there is something steady in his stance that is unmistakable. Simple, plain cloth covers him as he faces her patiently.

“It seems you have something heavy upon your mind, Dr. Ziegler,” he says gently. “We don’t have to speak about that someone now if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she shakes her head. There are far too many times fear has left her paralyzed; she won’t let it take her limbs now. Not when she may get answers. “I’m ready… but what I want to tell you is difficult to take in. I haven’t told anyone else about this someone.”

“There is no need to worry about ridicule or disbelief from me. It is good that you’re talking about it now, but I encourage you to talk to your loved ones as well,” the monk’s kind and caring words settle her wired nerves.

She draws a deep breath.

“I’m not superstitious,” she begins, “but strange things started happening when I moved into this house.”

It’s a flood bursting from the dam within her. She starts with the misplaced items and strange sense of being watched or not being entirely alone. Zenyatta doesn’t interrupt or shift his expression into disbelief or worry. It almost feels like a secret that she shouldn’t be sharing.

Going over the first fright that made her flee her house, she flickers her gaze over Zenyatta’s composure. He only nods for her to continue on. She doesn’t say Genji’s name when she tells about the handprint on the wall, or any of his writings. Those feel too personal, for some reason.

The rest falls off of her tongue. The instances she’s sure he’s carried her to her bedroom and the encounter that made her faint. When she ends at that, Zenyatta’s composure finally shifts. When he confirms that that is everything, Angela lies and says yes.

Silence blooms in the room. Her confessions still echo in her eardrums as the monk collects his thought. Slowly, he levels his gaze at her.

“If you don’t mind, will you show me around your home?”

She doesn’t. In the kitchen, she points to the table that she lit the candles to talk to that someone. When they move to the second floor, he almost seems to pause before ascending the stairs. The look on his face only stays for a moment but it pools anxiety into her chest.

He looks almost startled, as if sensing the entity within the walls.

When they enter her bedroom, something heavy moves into his brow, weighing it down into a hard line. A frown tugs at the corner of his lips as they stand in the middle of the carpet. Zenyatta surveys the entire room.

“Dr. Ziegler,” he finally says as he reaches into his robe like clothes. From within the folds, he pulls out a golden, metal orb about the size of a baseball. Handling it on the tips of his fingers, he presents it before her. “I do not know exactly of the someone you are speaking about, but there  _is_  a someone.”

He offers the golden orb as he continues, “I don’t want to alarm or frighten you, but the presence is in this house is malevolent. Although, I have heard much worst things from others who have been in a house like this for less time. I don’t know what to make of this entity.”  

The sole conviction in his words calms Angela’s center. The small, ever nagging question of her sanity is thrown out in the sunshine of Zenyatta’s belief of her and whatever Genji is.

“I fear for your safety, especially as you live alone,” his voice falls into a grave tone. “Please, take this and keep it on you as much as possible when you are here.”

“What is it—” as her fingers grace the cool metal, several drawers upon her dresser are violently pulled out. Angela and Zenyatta both start, but it’s she who gasps sharply. The monk only observes the drawers before firmly pressing the orb into her hands.

She takes it, awestruck at the physical evidence seen by the monk as he turns slightly away from her. The cool metal weighs in her palms. The dull glow of the gold orb seems to hold as peaceful as Zenyatta.

“Whoever you are,” he speaks clearly and outloud to the room. Angela only stands aside. “Leave this house in peace. If your intentions are to harm this woman in anyway, you will fail.”

The bedroom door, which was slightly closed behind them when they entered, flings open. As if the action is directed entirely towards the monk. The impression left in it’s violent swing crushes drywall underneath the doorknob. The essence of Genji’s meaning does not fall upon deaf ears.

 _You leave_ , he’s saying.

“Don’t hurt him,” Angela bursts out, angry at the behavior she’s never seen before. She stops, startled by her own response when Zenyatta looks back to her. There is still calm but now, concern fills his gaze for her.

“There is no need to worry about me, Dr. Ziegler,” he says, quietly confident. “Has this someone ever done this before?”

“No,” she breathes. “Not to me. He—It’s never been so violent before.”

The monk almost smiles, “This someone don’t like me.”

He turns back to her, losing any hint of humor.

“Is there anyone you could stay with?” he asks. “It’s dangerous to be close to something so powerful and evil. If possible, I would prefer that you didn’t sell this place until I can speak to my brothers and sisters. We can take this burden away and disperse whoever this—”

“Wait,” she interrupts, nearly cradling the golden orb to her stomach as she holds up her other hand. “I’m not moving out. This is my home.”

The monk stills at her declaration, before stepping forward once.

“Dr. Ziegler—”

“If this does what I think it does,” she holds up the golden orb, “then I should be okay. I don’t want to be pushed out of my own home when I have made it my own. This… someone hasn’t hurt me and I don’t believe he wants to.”

Zenyatta’s worry amplifies tenfold. It builds in his dark, wise eyes.

“Dr. Ziegler, I fear this is a demon,” he finally speaks.

Her lungs shrivel at the idea, pushing harsh air out of her lungs. The dark hand. The ghostly breath. Even the fear that paralyzes her when he makes himself even partly present.

She looks down to the golden orb that made him react so violently.

A demon is haunting her home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It sucks getting into an argument with a demon and maybe hurting his feelings.

The orb itself is a protective and healing talisman. The demon can’t get near it or touch it, much less her if she keeps it on her person.

Angela considers finding a different place, if only to slightly settle Zenyatta’s concern. There is no mistake that he doesn’t believe her half hearted afterthought. Before he leaves, he asks if he may visit sometime next week, to check in. She reassures him he doesn’t have to, but his gentle insistence persuades her.

He’s worried of listening to the news one morning and hearing of Dr. Ziegler’s body being found. So, she agrees. He is lovely company in any case.

The moment the door shuts behind the monk, Angela presses her backside against the frame. Soaking in the hard texture against her spine, she breathes out. Her thoughts come together as a jumbled mess.

Genji is a real and constant presence. Her mind is not slipping or conjuring up nightmares. He is real, and he is a demon, if Zenyatta’s fear is correct.

Zenyatta wants her to leave this house, but it’s hers. This is her place and Genji’s presence within it is difficult, but not entirely impossible. The fear coming off of his cold drafts is finally explained. What remains unanswered stares at her in a golden sphere.

The air becomes cool as goosebumps rise on her skin. Almost in contrast, the metal of the orb in her palm becomes warmer. Goosebumps rise upon her flesh but fear doesn’t take over her heart. Holding it over her sternum, Angela eyes the empty room. A different, deeper sense warns her of his presence.

“Why did you get angry at Zenyatta?” she asks out loud, knowing full well the answer.

A drawer in the kitchen is pulled open sharply, rattling utensils. Angela hardens her expression with anger.

“Stop throwing a childish fit,” she chastises the air.

The first dam that broke within her affected something else. Now, a new furious and confused flood races over her tongue.

“I didn’t even know you were a demon and you were so close to me!” she lashes out harshly. “I don’t know what you do at night when I’m sleep, much less what you look like or what you want. I’m terrified you’re going to hurt me, Genji!”

Steam rises off of her lips but her lungs heave. The energy and emotion from the room moves through her in a electrifying current. Arguing with a demon raises her blood pressure and nearly makes her rub her temple in agitation.

The cold draft shifts to a lighter cool, no longer intense. His presence still lingers but there is no more wrath.

In curiosity, Angela straightens. Sweeping the hallway and rooms, as if to find him, she steps forward.

“Genji?” the caution in her voice carries.

Another drawer opens in the kitchen. It doesn’t shake or bang with intense force but rather, calmly alerts her. She steps around the table to reach one partially open drawer. The edge of a sheet of paper drapes over the side, threatening to fall to the ground. Shifting the orb to one hand, Angela takes the corner and holds it out.

In dripping wet, yellow paint, it reads: NEVER HURT

The two words instill shock with in her center. Echoing through her rib cage, she rereads the scrawly, bold letters again, then again. Slowly, she tastes the ice in the air before turning around. No one else stands in the open kitchen but her. Yet, the presence of something dark and powerful surrounds her. Her heartbeat no longer thunders as she considers him silently.

Almost whispering, she asks, “Why?”

One heartbeat passes. Without a second thought, she places the golden orb on the counter. It leaves her palm with the remnants of its warmth.

A gentle tug immediately pulls at a lock of hair from her ponytail, almost silly and lighthearted. As if to reassure an anxious, delirious partner. As if he ghosted another cool breath against her ear in comfort.

It is not an answer, but it is. It’s something. The confusion building up in her mind and heart only stir more unsure things. Questions want to flood her tongue, but she doesn’t dare to ask anymore.

When she picks up the orb, holding it once again in her palm, the cool draft dies away. Angela doesn’t say his name again. He’s not here.

*

A demon’s anger should be terrifying and violent, but Angela only feels the cold, distant hurt. She could find humor in that fact there’s guilt slipping into her chest at bringing a monk into the house. She doesn’t. When she comes home there’s only one, soft tap. Nothing more gives away or signals his presence, even when she asks questions.

Part of this reaction stems from the orb. It’s difficult to carry around by itself. Slipping from her fingers, Angela prays that it doesn’t crack the tile it falls upon. There’s no mark but the next day she buys a small, cross body purse to place within. Carrying it around constantly is odd. The warmth coming off of the orb keeps away hair tugs or any dark hands.

To test the gold metal’s abilities, Angela exhausts herself while working over her laptop. It’s well past midnight when she finally leans back and closes her eyes for a moment. The golden orb rests against her thigh and couch cushion. Her phone alarm goes off in the morning. Jolting awake on the couch in a sore, uncomfortable position, she finds herself still downstairs.

“This really repels you, doesn’t it?” she speaks softly. The gold metal warms her fingertips.

A tap on the wall echoes. She can taste the displeasure in the air. Whether it’s for the orb, or being unable to get to her now, remains up in the air.

At night, the golden metal stays among her covers as she sleeps. Once she wakes to a terrible ache in her spine from when it rolled under her back. Mostly, the unnameable energy coming off of it promotes calmness and peace within her. Whatever it is, whatever holy talisman warns off dark creatures of the night, she longs to ask Zenyatta more about it.

If there are demons, there must certainly be light to answer back.

Zenyatta knocks gently on her door early in the next week. A soft concern shifts upon his expression that settles Angela’s soul. At least one person knows what is going on, and what happened should she ever disappear mysteriously. He doesn’t like that she hasn’t told anyone else but him, but he understands how difficult it is to speak about.

Zenyatta stirs such a negative reaction within Genji. The moment he leaves, a drawer is knocked open or a harsh tap on the wall echoes. Her rebukes of being nice to the monk does little to settle this sharp energy.

Thinking such a notion makes her want to shake some sense into her head, but it’s almost true. The demon withdrawing from her presence makes a quiet, still, emptiness settle around her. Even at night, when she watches T.V. or cooks dinner, it’s not as electrifying.

The news is never anything pleasant. A warning tells everyone to stay inside at night and keep doors locked for fear of the Reaper moving into the city for his murders. Several more bodies were found. They never go into details about the grotesque slaughter, but they don’t have to.

Angela turns it off before they can speak about the families and the funerals being arranged.

It still slips into the subconscious corners of her mind.

The dark night is especially so. The moon is new and the clouds are heavy. Rain is threatening to fall at any moment. She only heard a tap earlier from Genji when she walked through the door.

She falls sleeps with the orb placed carefully on a pillow beside her head. Unfortunately, the calming, gentle aura surrounding it can’t stop the nightmares. She’s afraid nothing can at this point.

Bolting upright, Angela gasps so sharply it almost sounds like a strangled cry. Her hands clutch at her mouth and chest, as if wanting to reach inside and slow the thunder of her heart. Images stain the back of her eyelids, refusing to let her blink as she stares into the darkness of her room. Wide eyes stay frozen as harsh breaths shudder her core. Her fingers tremble as they curl against the fabric of her nightgown.

The static of a T.V. shone light. The knives and claws plunged into her chest and eyes until all she could see was red. All that was left was her upon the ground. There no identifying her face. It was too cut up and full of scarlet liquid.

This is the worst one. Other dreams are full of dark hands wrapping around her throat or dragging her down into the basement to never be seen again. Some are haunting, echoing breaths that fill her head until she sees nothing but darkness. Once, she dreamed of a dark outline before it rushed forward and attacked her.

Angela digs her nails into her skin. The small points of pain rip her mind out of the dark dreams and back into the soft mattress and warm covers she rests in. Curling her legs into her chest, she scoots back until her spine touches the backboard.

A gentle tap startles her enough to flinch. Restarting her heart, she rests a hand over her chest. 

“Genji,” she says, being managing a tired smile, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Two taps. No. It was a silly question anyways. Who knows if demons can sleep, or rest in any matter?

“I must make this too easy for you,” she continues. Mostly, she wants to do anything but think about the nightmare that jarred her awake. If talking to a demon is the trick, so be it. “I’m such a scaredy-cat.”

Two more taps echo lightly, as if playfully responding to her joke. It makes her close her eyes and rub her temple for a moment.

Slowly, she peers over to the golden orb. Sunken into the pillow, it stays close to her person. A dangerous thought crosses her mind. Picking it up, the metal warms her fingers as she considers what may be a very foolish thing.

“Genji,” she starts carefully, “If I put this away, will you show yourself to me?”

The adrenaline of the nightmare is just waning. What runs through her veins is certainly not bravery, but maybe the tolerance for more fear. It’s as if the dream braced her for this moment.

Two, decisive taps bounce off the wall.

“Why not?” she presses. “You have a physical form; I know you do. You know what I look like. I want to see you.”

This is most definitely foolish. He either doesn’t want to show himself for what the effects of his person may have, or, he doesn’t believe she’ll keep her word about the golden orb.

Silence stretches with her thoughts before slower, undecided taps echo. Angela stirs at the slight hesitation.

“Genji…” she stalls her next words. Doubt plagues her center. Does she really want to see the hidden monster, especially when she already has a dark image of him in her head?

Revelation springs forward. Lifting her chin to the wall where the taps sound from, Angela considers her words carefully.

“Will you let me touch you? I’ll keep my eyes close,” she compromises.

Seconds bleed into larger pools of time. Silence grows for so long, Angela parts her lips to try and convince the demon, but it isn’t needed.

One soft tap nearly booms in her ears.

“Okay,” she breathes. The rational side of her brain must still be functioning, as her heartbeat picks up. Leaning over the side of bed, Angela places the golden orb in the nightstand drawer. It rolls heavily against the wood as she shuts it.

A cold draft swiftly moves over her skin before she can even consider getting to her feet. Immediately, she closes her eyes and clings to the burning blood in her veins. She refuses the icy terror wanting to take over her hands and arms. Scooting back against the backboard, Angela sits upon a pillow.

Goosebumps rises as she waits. At the edge of her control, fear threatens to break her grasp but she hardens her fist. Drawing in the lingering effects from the orb, Angela focuses those calm and peaceful energies into her chest.

There is no footstep to prelude the weight pressing onto the end of the bed. The shifting sensation jolts her slightly. All thoughts of peace and calmness evaporate within her.

The pressure advances slowly. Trapped, with her eyelids closed, Angela’s heart thunders as something dark creeps closer on the mattress. A faint echo of breathing touches her ears, but she’s not sure it’s entirely real.

Movement stops right before her. Terrifying thoughts flood her mind of what she’ll find if she opens her eyes, but she doesn’t. The sense of something real and breathing right in front of her freezes her lungs.

He’s waiting.

As if prying a sheet of ice out of a frozen lake, Angela lifts her hand. The trembling in her fingers is in full view of the demon. Suspending her hand in the air, she pauses in the unknown and what she does known.

She will never know what he is exactly, unless she continues on with bravery.

Inching her hand forward, she jumps when cool fingers wrap around her wrist. Bringing her closer, she lets him guide her. All too suddenly, she’s touching smooth skin upon a human like face. A cheek rests underneath her palm. Daring to lean forward even slightly, Angela brings her other hand forward. It finds a mirrored cheekbone.

She stills at the scenario. Her, holding a demon’s face in her hands. The touch of his skin is cool, but seemingly human. Her hands shake like leaves upon a young tree in a hurricane. He must feel that. Does he find that pathetic, or natural?

Here now, and refusing to waste this, she slides her left pinky finger downwards. Something sharp and hard, like bone, stops the movement. As her fingertips fall to the jawline, she finds jutting points on the corners. Rising back up, carefully, her thumb brushes against eyelashes that shift downwards.

Is he looking back at her? He must be. What does he find in her closed eyes and parted lips? Only fear to be fed upon? Or maybe, someone who’s just as unsure as him?

At a crawling pace, her pointer fingers brush over eyelids and the bridge of a nose. Trailing down the nose, she finds lips. Air touches against her knuckles as her thumb moves to touch the corner of a mouth. Slowly, wary of sharp fangs biting off a finger, she begins to outline the bottom lip. Two sharp points nearly cut her skin. She stills at what her mind impresses into her imagination as white, glistening fangs.

In between these jutting fangs breaking out of lips, she rests her thumb. Cool skin moves against her thumbprint. Stalling, fear ejects itself directly into her chest.

Lips move, puckering in the slightest. A gasp rises out of her throat but she doesn’t pull away. The motion stops suddenly, stilling as if wary of frightening her.

She waits. Counting her heartbeat for seven, quick pulses, Angela dares to move her fingertips once more. It’s as if he loosens slightly when she decides to continue.

Her finger trail up the side of his face. Another cool, sharp bone like structures bump against her fingers where the temples are. Gradually slipping her fingers upwards even more, she touches short, tousled hair. She almost peeks, just to see how wild and dark his hair is. A deep, almost laugh, moves through the demonic breath in front of her.

Why he’s laughing at her slipping her hands through his hair remains unanswered.

A part of her wonders of this being a simple projection. The demon could be holding out a fake face while deciding how exactly he wants to take her soul. There is no real truth she can cling to, save for what she feels in her palms.

Brushing her hands through his hair, she doesn’t find anymore horns. She wonders if anything decorate his skin. Retracting slightly, her left hand comes to a rest against his cheek. In a subconscious reflex, she strokes gently underneath his eye with a trembling thumb. A quiet breath echoes. Her hand stills.

Her other doesn’t. It trails downwards in a terrified but defying motion. Carefully moving over the horn on the corner of his jaw, her palm finds his throat. Cool risings and fallings move against her skin. There is no pulse she can sense aside from the pounding thundering in her own ears.

Outlining his neck, Angela slowly fits two fingers to where the carotid artery would be were this any other human. The breaths in front of her slow as her own shuddering person makes it difficult to focus on the pulse.

But there is none.

A cool hand slowly covers the back of hers. Letting go of her hold, dark fingers slip hers. They press her knuckles to a strong throat while chilling her skin with it’s grasp.

Effort channeled into just unlocking her jaw nearly breaks her. Her lips move into a whisper.

“Genji.”

There is no other word in her mind. What she feels underneath her palms, and what terrorizes her nightmares is too much. The quiet, ghostly breaths hold more than he will ever let her know. She wants to know.

She wants the demon to show what lies in the dark, but fear keeps her safe and contained.

Slowly, retreating back to the reality of sunshine and physical bodies that weak and hunger, Angela lifts her hands away. Cool fingers release their grasp. Her eyes remain closed.

“Thank you,” she says. She doesn’t know what else to say, save for his name.

The mattress shifts under invisible weight once more. Angela breathes in ice as his dark, looming presence comes closer. For a moment, the belief that he was only toying with her snaps to the front of her mind as she awaits a claw to break open her flesh.

It never comes.

Cool, dark fingers move a lock of hair behind her ear. A gentle breath echoes. She trembles like a leave falling down through the wind, but she doesn’t move. Her limbs refuse to unlock until the cold seeps away, and the bed shifts to holding just her weight.

After years of being in the dark, Angela opens her eyes. There is no light, or figure awaiting in the shadows. A tired sigh leaves her lungs before she rubs the goosebumps on her arms away.

The golden orb stays in the drawer as she presses her cheek into the pillow, and allows exhaustion to force her eyes closed once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the warnings for this part! It gets grisly but it’s more implied then actually stated.

The working week takes most of her energy. The late nights when she returns home is full of soft knocks and cool greetings. Goosebumps run along her flesh when she finally takes out the ponytail in her hair. The corners of her lips turn upwards when she says his name. Her own hello.

The golden orb stays put away. When the early days of the week come around, Angela always has it in her little purse as Zenyatta walks through her door. The conversations are always pleasant. Even aside from the topic of ghosts and demons, Zenyatta is quite approachable and kind. Whatever stress she has from the week is easy to explain to him. In turn, he tells her about his brothers and sisters, and the mysterious connection they call the Iris.

He ends their little chats with insistence on telling someone else. It doesn’t slip his notice how much better she’s doing, or that the demon has yet to do something drastic, but that doesn’t evaporate the worry in his face. Angela’s attempts to reassure him are half hearted, as she’s still not sure exactly what’s happening within her own house.

The golden orb goes back to its drawer immediately after Zenyatta leaves. The moment the metal no longer touches her skin, a strand of her hair is tugged playfully. He’s much too eager for the monk’s departure and the orb to be put away, but, Angela finds it amusing.

For an unknown reason, the little ghostly breaths that send shivers down her spine become less paralyzing. She hopes it’s her own courage building up against what froze her in place. Perhaps, he’s simply not trying to scare her anymore.

The latter sounds much more probable than the former.

Finding the energy to cook food, Angela plays quiet music as she chops vegetables. It’s a simple but favorite recipe that brings comfort. Not that she needs it tonight, but the thought of something hearty and warm made her mouth water.

She almost forgets to start cooking the beef. The green bell peppers remain half cut as Angela lights one cooker on the stove top. Taking out a pan, the uncooked meat doesn’t sizzle immediately. It will take some time to brown. Returning to the vegetables, Angela picks up the silver knife.

Her grip slips slightly, causing the blade to drop downwards. Reflectively, her other hand snatches it before it can fall to the ground. The blade pierces her palm as she catches it. A sharp intake of breath echoes before a curse falls out of her mouth.

Flinching slightly as she raises the knife by it’s hilt with her other hand, she finds a straight line of red. The length runs down the outer edges of her palm perfectly, just underneath her pinky finger. Blood begins to pool into uneven, thick beads that spill over and drip down the side of her hand.

“Oh no,” she mutters. Trying to catch a falling knife is not the cleverest thing Angela has done all week.

Setting the red stain edge of the knife on the counter, she shifts her hand into the light. It blooms with a sharp, delicate ache but it’s not deep. No need for stitches.

A tap echoes, almost startling Angela away from examining the long but shallow wound.

“I’m fine, Genji,” she speaks to the air. “It looks worse than it actually is.”

Her foolish mistake glares up at her. Red is starting to drip down her hand and onto the clean kitchen floor. Moving to the sink, Angela comes to a stop as chills seep into her flesh.  

This is nothing new. Calmly collecting her center around her beating heart, Angela closes her eyes. Her one hand cups the bleeding one. Held out in front of her, she stands. Vaguely, her stance could be mistaken for an offering of her life force.

Cool, ghostly fingers jolt her skin as they slip over her hands. A deep breath falls into her lungs, but no ice takes over her veins. Nothing chains her in fear.

A soft pressure covers her wound. The impressions of sharp bone carefully brushing against her palm stills her hands even more. Cold lips dip into the red spilling over her palm. They stay, as if drinking in the slight ache.

Her eyelids flutter. Burning with curiosity, her mind whips around the question of if he’s tasting her blood. Her heartbeat rises. Deep breaths take over her chest to keep up with the adrenaline threatening to flood her system.

The lips lift away. A cool essence lingers in her skin and the blood staining it. She almost dares to move again when the same soft, but now wet, lips fall upon her other hand. Underneath her thumb, upon her palm, they press gently. A lover’s sort of hello.

The same lips kiss her thumb. The undoubtedly terror inducing, fanged framed mouth of the demon has yet to take a bite or scream a blood curdling howl.

The paper proclaiming his intention of never harming her springs to the front of her mind. The easily marked deception revolves into a truth. A truth that stays in her chest.

His fingers fall away. The lingering, dark touch stays in her hands as her eyes open.

The kitchen is still bright, and music plays faintly in the background. Nothing changes, save for within her. The only evidence of something more, of someone here, is the stirred blood upon her cut.

Upon her other palm, a perfect mark of kissing lips is colored with her red. Overlapping her thumb, she brushes it. The demon’s presence stays in her palms.

The blood washes down the drain, but the soft pressure haunts her hands for the rest of the night.

*

The next week is even more rushed. Several surgeries call her out of the house in the dead of night. Curious taps arise as she pulls on her jacket while leaving in the first hour of the morning. She quickly explains to dead air before bolting out into the night and returning later in the dawn.

It’s probably not a good habit, but she speaks out loud whenever possible. What little communication they have is limited to her voice and scattered pieces of paper with paint and knocking, but she knows he’s listening. When she comes back through the door, she knows someone’s waiting for her.

Briefly, before she goes to bed, she tries to ask him to show himself. There is either no answer, or a sharp double knock to refuse her demand. When she persists, she comes home to a sheet of paper reading: ENOUGH NIGHTMARES

It chills her soul, but she can’t argue against his logic. She’s never been so plagued with violent and frightening visions in her dreams until she moved into this house. A part of her knows it’s his very presence boiling over fears into her sleeping hours. Yet, if she ever jerks awake from a gory dream, his little knocks chase away the isolated terror.

Curiosity may kill this cat, but Angela wants to see him.

Between work, nightmares and questions that refuse to be answered, Angela is exhausted. There is almost no time for her to relax until a Sunday arises with no work in the morning. She prays that there is no need to call her in.

A warm dinner settles in her belly as a movie plays on the T.V. screen. Briefly before she switched the channel, the newscaster warned once again about staying inside at night and locking all windows and doors. The police have just discovered several bodies close to the suburbans, raising the count of Reaper’s victims.

A soft moment passes to mourn the lost lives, but she doesn’t let it linger inside of her chest. Clutching a soft blanket close, she risks a dangerous gamble of stretching out across the couch. It’s already a lost. Her eyes close before the opening scene even finishes.

Quietly, something tender moves against her shoulder blade. Fingertips trace soothing circles into her skin before she draws a deep, tired breath. The touch vanishes. It must have been from a lingering dream.

Stirring on the couch, Angela peeks through heavy eyelids at the darkness to the room. The T.V. is off somehow, and she can sense the later hour. A groan moves through her throat as she presses her cheek to the backrest of the couch. Her conscious refuses to wake entirely, and move her weary limbs.

“Genji?” she breathes out quietly. Her eyelids still remain close through the heavy fog of sleep.

One quiet tap echoes.

“Hmm,” she hums a tired note as she shifts slightly. “Are you waiting for me to fall asleep so you can carry me upstairs?”

A simple knock echoes, making her smile slightly at his bluntness.

“You know,” the heel of her hand rubs one eye socket, “you could carry me now. It’s a lot less creepy when I’m awake.”

The joke in her tone is much too obvious. Really, she’s already working herself up to get to her feet when the air suddenly cools.

“No, no,” she panics while shutting her eyes. “Wait, I was just—”

Every last ounce of sleepiness in her system disintegrates as two arms slip underneath her body. Gasping sharply at the sudden but gentle pull into a strong chest, Angela scrunches her eyes closed as she’s moved through the air. She can taste his challenging humor. Steady footsteps echo as her arms curl uselessly into her chest. There is no wonder or worry about him dropping her. As they reach the first step on the stairs, Angela is sure her weight is like a feather in his hold. The arm across her back and the arm underneath her knees never waver.

The absolute solid state of his torso shocks her system. Although her hands had traced his face, this is another matter entirely. It’s concrete of which she can stand upon. It’s reality and fiction clashing in such a terribly wonderful way. His hold steadily raises her up the stairs as she soaks in the physical mass of his person. There is no heartbeat that she can find, but she lets go of the fear in the racing of her blood to lay her head against his chest.

A ghostly breath falls into her hair as he takes her into the bedroom. Her lungs are quick but her heart stays at a constant and swift speed. There is too much on either end. Fear warns of what clutches her to a dark chest. Weeks of acknowledgement and saying one name tells her no harm will come. The urge to break free and run fills her chest but the want to stay still and soak in the details of his arms encasing her remain.

He stops. Slightly disoriented from her own blindness, Angela tenses when he lowers her. The mattress soon takes on her weight and allows a heavy breath to fall out of her lungs.

His arms begin to slip away from her person. A new want arises as she catches his hand. A bone chilling wave moves through her at being so sudden, but nothing growls in her ear.

For a moment, she simply encases the dark hand in between her own. Her thumbs press into a cool palm. The rough but strangely familiar texture of knuckles underneath strange skin hold against her fingertips. He doesn’t pull away.

The idea of peeking startles her chest. What may frighten her to death could be standing right before her, not to mention his reaction. There is a small but strong string of truth stretched between them. She won’t break it.

Instead, a deep sigh moves through her rib cage. Her thumbs rub small circles into his palm.

“I don’t understand you,” she finds herself whispering. “You chased so many others away when you let me stay. You terrify me. You reassure me. I am still waiting for the day you decide to kill me while hoping that I’m not the only one who’s confused now.”

The ramblings slip off of her tongue like sacred honey. Her heart thunders as she still clutches his hand in between her own. This doesn’t and shouldn’t make sense. A demon is haunting her house and she lets him even closer. There is no absence of terror in her body yet she still endures this all for something.

Her brow crumbles. Pressing her lips into a frown, she loosens her fingers before letting go. If he wants to leave, she shouldn’t keep him.

The lack of warm air swarming her skin gives her time to pause. Confused, she almost lifts her eyelids when cool fingers brush against her cheek. A sharp inhale moves through her throat, but she stays still as a palm cups the side of her face. The stunning touch leaves her lips parted. Hardly daring to breathe, the air shifts as he looms closer.

The several notes in wet paint and gentle hair tugs crash together in her head. Even the act of the demon carrying her to bed when she’s fallen asleep on the couch stirs something deep within her chest. The gentle cradle of his hand upon her skin creates ripples at the edges of her soul. Dangerously, weakly, she leans into his touch.

The dark hand stays for a moment more before shifting down to her neck. The moment three fingers touch the side of her throat, a surviving instinct shoots her hands forward. Grasping the wrist belonging to the hand, her nails almost dig into cool skin. A hundred past nightmares pool into her panicking mind at her windpipe being crushed. Her eyes scrunch close as she braces for the fight in defense of her life.

The hand stills immediately. Nearly lifting away, but close enough that their atoms still connect, a slow breath echoes before her. It stays calm and gentle. The terror in her chest keeps her heart galloping, but slowly, she loosens her death grip.

Like rushing water eroding the sharp edges of a rock, his fingers move once more. He stops once her tension squeezes his wrist once again. His movement only continues when she no longer braces to hold him back. With her pulse drowning out any other noise in her ears, she slowly allows him to grace his fingertips against her throat.

Two fingers suddenly press against her carotid artery. Angela stills. The light pressure nearly bounces the racing vein off of his touch. The speed of her heart betrays her more so, but befuddlement fills her chest. What need does a demon have to check her pulse?

Or is he simply doing what she did to him? What can her heart convey that he doesn’t already see or hear? Does he hope the action is familiar to her, and therefore comforting? Or he is just trying to be as close as possible?

“Don’t you already sense that?” she asks, demanding an answer through her fear. Surely her trembling terror is nothing new. “Do you like it?”

Whatever the answer, she braces for it. Even the lack of one could throw her into a downwards spiral.

His fingers shift to gently trail up her jawline. Pressing against her skin, his cool palm cups her cheek once more. Her tense hands slide down his wrist to simply hold along his arm, almost lightly. Quietly, a breath moves to brush over her forehead. The air stirs against her hair before something electrifying nears the shell of her ear.

“Not anymore.”

She silently gasps at the hauntingly deep voice whispering into her ear. As smooth as a black river but laced with something powerful, and wicked. It echoes in her skull like a cursed lullaby.

“Genji,” she whispers.

A cool thumb runs across her cheekbone once before slowly retracting. She loosens her hold to let him slip away.

In moments, the cold draft disappears. Burning ice remains against her cheek as she finally opens her eyes. She lifts her hand to touch the skin he once held, before finding even more questions in her soul.

*

Glass shatters. The sound echoes in her mind as Angela’s eyes flutter open. Careful to not clench her bandaged hand harshly, she stirs. The noise is distant. As far away as if it occurred in her dreams, which she’s sure it did.

Before she can turn over and close her eyes, a sharp knock erupts on the backboard. Groaning, Angela sits up while rubbing the heel of her hand into one eye socket.

“Genji?” her sleepy voice is hushed, “What are you doing?”

Three sharp raps burst upon the wall. Before the sound dies down, a mysterious force rips the comforter off of her bed and body. Subjected to the cooler air, Angela makes a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat.

“What do you want?” Her phone reveals it being little past 3 AM.

Throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, chills rush her. The swift heaviness in the air, alluding to something dark, throws terror into her blood.

A cool breath grazes the shell of her ear, but a deep, haunting voice whispers, “Be quiet.”

The voice. The voice is his. Angela holds her breath in anticipation when solid, certain footsteps sound from the stairs. Something shifts in the air. New chills set into her muscles as she silently stands. She pads forward in bare feet and a thin nightgown.

The bedroom door is slightly open. As she begins to walk to it, the hinges creak as no one apparently pushes it close. Narrowing her brow, Angela touches the doorknob. She begins to twist it when something stops the knob from moving.

“Let me open the door, Genji,” she demands.

When she turns it once more, it gives smoothly. Pulling it open cautiously, Angela looks out into the dark hallway as her heart begins to climb into her throat.

A black silhouette looms on top of the stairs. Nothing distinct gives the figure away except for the lack of cold air surrounding her. A bone white, skull like mask hides the man’s face. In his hands rest two glinting knives. Fear climbs into her chest as she holds her breath. Dozens of mutilated bodies and untraceable tracks fill her terror locked mind as he allows the gravity of the situation to hold her down.  

The man tilts his masked face ever so slightly, impressing the feeling of an owl finding a sleeping mouse. He raises one of the sharp daggers in his hand.

The Reaper.

The door is ripped out of her grasp and slammed closed by someone unseen. Stumbling backwards, Angela’s panicking mind scrambling for any footholds. She rips her gaze away from the door to find her phone still charging on the nightstand.

Before she can take a step, a shuddering blow is thrown into the door. Shrieking, Angela stumbles back once more as another quaking force bashes against the handle. Quick breaths overtake her lungs. Trapped in a different, hotter, sharper kind of fear, the handle is broken off with a dark boot. Wood cracks and splinters as it swings halfway open.

A glove covered hand pushes the ruined door open. Stepping inside, Angela’s heart stops. The mask cuts through her chest, inviting every gory image of her death.

The broken door suddenly slams into the side of the dark man. He grunts more in shock then in pain as she finally kicks herself into darting to the phone. Struggles sound only for a moment more before she grabs the phone and desperately swipes at the screen. She only punches 91 in before heavy footsteps rush at her backside. Terrified of a blade piercing through her spine, Angela throws herself onto the mattress. Rolling over it to the other side, the sound of metal slashing through the air cuts just inches behind her head.

With phone still in hand, Angela gets to her feet and runs. Her heart pounds with adrenaline and the rush of literal death just waiting to grab her throat. This is entirely new. This fear makes her leap down the stairs and nearly crumple at the bottom. The reality of a man with the intention of letting the morning rise on her corpse moves quick, hot blood through her.

A deep breath of frustration echoes behind her as she turns to her front door. Scrambling, she unlocks the deadbolt. Her fingers rattle and miss the doorknob lock. In seconds, pounding footsteps fall down the stairs. There is nothing left between her and the silent killer.

Angela turns just as a silver blade cuts downwards, slicing the length of her left arm as she raises it in defense. A cry rips out of her throat as warm liquid spills across her skin. The sharp, bone white mask holds apathetically as she faces him with wide eyes.

The unstained knife raises in the air, ready to strike into her chest. Something causes his downward plunge to stop. A force working against his hand stops him from slicing a new wound in her body. A deep breath drags into her throat as shrouded, life and death instincts push her to shove past the Reaper and into the living room. The desperate will to not die carries her.

From the corner of her vision, she makes out the broken window over the kitchen sink, and the shards of glass on the counter.

The basement awaits with a closed door. A stinging ache in her arm along with blood dripping behind her keeps with her running. She just passes the couch when a hard grip ensnares her hair. Her screams are cut off as she’s thrown to the floor where her head bounces off of the carpet. The phone tumbles out of her hand.

Stunned, she squirms to push herself up as dark legs walk around her. Coming to stand at her feet, the silent killer looms. Angela crawls. Like a worm withering on the baking sidewalk, she fights for any notion of escape from what is already ending her.

A harsh hand wraps around her ankle and jerks her back. A short cry bursts out of her throat as she twists to kick back with her free foot. The moment she does, the masked figure lets go, but not for her effort.

There is no simple, cool draft. The temperature in the room plunges into a freezing air that creates frosty breaths from her mouth. Using an arm to prop her back off of the floor, Angela watches the man’s body become frozen. Tension physically hardens his stance as his mask points only to the space above and behind her person.

In a heartbeat, the Reaper tightens his grip on the knives. She knows what’s paralyzing his limbs and stopping his mind from thinking of anything but what lies in the darkness. The strength to endure it stays in her blood.

He’s with her. Knowing to not look, she finds hope in the slightest bit of uncertainty moving through the silent killer.

An ear splitting roar, that she can only describe like that of a demonic dragon, sends Angela curling into a ball on the floor as the Reaper steps backwards. Pressing her cheek into the carpet, she prays for her soul. A shadow made of smoke moves over her. The essence sends her jaw chattering from the cold as it rushes upon the dark man.

Angela raises her head as the smoke takes shape before the Reaper. Dark cloth shrouds the figure. Jutting horns appear on his shoulders and from the very corners of his face. Red swirls upon his skin in stark markings while red, burning irises freeze the breath in her lungs. Only a glimpse of the demon’s face is given, but it is more than enough to confirm the finality of her death tonight.

The Reaper draws back a knife. A shout arises from the man, strained with fear and adrenaline of what comes next. He starts to demand what exactly is standing before him, when a dark hand grabs his throat.

Blood begins to seep through the black fabric of his clothes, around the dark hand. Strangled screams flings into the air as he’s lifted by a staggering force. The demon’s other hand moves, but what he does with it to cause the silent killer to writhe eludes her eyes.

The basement door opens without a physical presence causing it to do so. The Reaper still screams around the pressure in his throat as the dark, horned figure takes him to the lower level. Cries and shouts of terror erupt as they enter the basement.

It doesn’t really start to pierce her ears until the door shuts once more. The thin layer of wall does little to quieten down the terrorizing sounds of a dying, tortured man. It starts to scrap against the edges of her sanity. Slowly, Angela crawls to the phone lost in the carpet. The un-dialed number is then called.

She doesn’t hear the voice asking her address through the screams. There isn’t much left she can focus on save for the dark force she saw only moments ago and the certain threat of her life ending. Her heart pounds against her sternum. It should be bruised from how strong her heart thunders to keep her awake and alive.

The phone turns off. She doesn’t know if she did that herself. Shock is settling in drastically. Curling her hands over her head, even as blood drips down the entire length of her left arm, she hides herself.

Slowly, the screams start to die down. They turn more choked with liquid, as if somehow drowning. The man’s deep, dark voice slowly becomes quiet. A few heavy thumps echo before silence finally rings out.

Her eyes are already closed when the basement door creaks open. It swings back shut just as softly. There are no footsteps for her desperate ears to catch, but a ghostly breath touches her hair. Carpet crunches underneath a kneeling weight.

It’s only when a dark hand falls upon her hair does she realize how much she’s trembling. As if her body is stuck in a blizzard as her mind is plunged into black sludge. The sharp pain in her arm is beginning to worsen.

Fingertips gently brush through her hair. Comforting. Soft. As if he’s not the same demon that just drug that man to his own personal hole in hell. She stays curled up, but all of her sense are focused on the calming, repetitive motion. This hand has touched her skin before.

Easing his arms around her, the demon pulls Angela into his chest. He cradles her upon the floor with a steady strength. Blood stains every inch of his person. It sticks to her hair and stains her nightgown but Angela hardly takes notice. There is no heartbeat to listen to, but she rests her cheek against his chest. Calm, constant breaths stay against her hair.

The red marks and terrifying, unholy eyes stay in her mind. They watch her now, but Angela doesn’t run. If anything, she curls up closer to his chest. Silver knives still hold up in front of her, ready to cut her flesh. She knows he can keep them away. 

Time passes by, but it doesn’t affect her. She’s in the demon’s arms for ages with a dark hand chasing away the horrors behind her eyelids. Gentle breathing stays with her as she tries to stop shivering.

Sirens slowly register in Angela’s mind. She flinches slightly, but her eyes remain closed. Shouting voices and red and blue lights take over the scene. Clutching at his chest for a moment, Angela stirs.

Carefully, like handling a dried rose, he moves her from his lap and back onto the carpet. Her tense, iron grip does little to stop him. His hand slips from her hair as he lays her gently on the ground.

“Genji…” she whispers, afraid. “Don’t leave me.”

A soft touch presses behind her ear, against her hair. Like a lover seeing their other half off to a difficult journey. His kiss stays against her skull. Something lingers close to her face as fingers lift away. One comforting breath echoes, and stays in her mind as police get through the front door.

*

Many strange looks are given to Angela by the police, but they shake the heavy thoughts away. Sometimes, the truth isn’t what needs to be heard.

The first officer to go into the basement comes back out and vomits. Angela never sees what became of the serial killer. There is already too many deep marks in her mind that will stay within her for years to come.

The police ask how a thin woman of no notable strength managed to overcome and kill the Reaper by herself, especially in such a gruesome manner. She tells them she doesn’t remember much. It was all a blur. They describe the blood painted walls and the several pieces they had to pick up to completely remove the dark man.  

Angela’s only explanation for the inexplicable state of Reaper’s body is that she was fighting to defend herself. She simply doesn’t remember what happened. Blood covers half of her person, most of it not her own. The truth of her being terrified of dying is unmistakable.  

She knows. She remembers. But it wasn’t she who stopped him.  

The news blares the end of the Reaper’s murderous rampage. She asks them to not say her name. Still, many people know she was almost Reaper’s next victim. The first scared expression to grace Jack’s hard and unmoving face is when he walks into her hospital room. The shock is starting to wear off. She’s crying as he hugs her and tells her that he’s glad she’s alive.

Her left arm is stitched from the wrist to the elbow. A scar will remain for the rest of her life, but it no longer bleeds precious red. Careful to not touch the healing bandages wrapping it as well, Angela sleeps for a long time.

Jack’s home and presence helps her the next few days. She stays close to him while trying to not become numb or lost in a thousand yard stare. There isn’t too much noise or distractions, but Jack is calm and sensible. He lets her know that no one is going to hurt her and that she’s safe.

People are paid to clean the house. They charge Angela extra for the murder scene in the basement, but that’s fine. She’s not going to touch it herself. The broken window and door are replaced or fixed.

Roughly two weeks pass before Angela gets a full night’s sleep without any nightmares. The next day, she tells Jack she’s going back home. His offer of staying the night on her couch to make it not so lonely is declined.

When she steps onto the porch, she reminisces on the realtor’s warning of the haunting within. The brand new, off colored door creates the feeling of stepping through the entry way for the very first time.

She wasn’t superstitious walking it in then. Now, she doesn’t scoff at the word.

Cold air welcomes her. Her first breath inside is a little foggy. A different welcome home.

Jack walks with her through the house and to check the basement. It’s clean, but a faint scent of sterilization and iron linger. Angela closes the door. After setting her grocery bag of clothes aside, Angela hugs Jack and thanks him. Again, his offer to help her settle in by staying the night is given. Again, Angela tells him she’s alright.

He leaves briefly after that. There is still concern in his eyes. Zenyatta is visiting tomorrow, and he deserves answers after she gave very little in his concerned phone call. He was thankfully to hear that she is recovering.

Silence falls within the house. All alone, Angela stands still. Stitches still trace her arm and her gaze never lands directly on the basement door, but she remains.

“Genji?” she breathes quietly.

One soft tap echoes, before dark fingers pull a strand of her hair. A smile breaks out of her mouth as stinging tears gather. Slowly, she closes her eyes.

“You saved me,” she says quietly in the cool air. “Thank you.”

Dark fingers brush against her skin. A shiver shakes her core and her heartbeat pounds against her sternum, but it is nothing now. Softly, negative energy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

He doesn’t reveal himself the first night, or the next. Her pleads are only answered after she closes her eyes. When she finally gets through sleeping without screaming or jerking awake due to violent flashbacks, Genji steps towards in her in the gray morning shadows.

The red marks that swirl upon his skin are strange and dripping with warning signs. Red horns stop her lungs before she remembers brushing against them. What startles her heart the most is the red gleam of his eyes. Absolutely demonic, but Angela approaches him without hesitation.

The someone within her home finally embraces her.

That night, when she closes the new, glossy door, she stalls. Vivid memories resurface, attacking her chest. She fights back with feeling her own lungs rise and fall, of knowing that there’s someone with her.

She doesn’t fall asleep when she lays down. Her eyes stay open. In the darkness, she whispers the name of a demon. The mattress shifts underneath something dark, but there is comfort in the hands that stroke her face. There are no nightmares when cold lips press against her cheeks. His red irises remind her of blood. The sharp ends of his horns and fangs stay still whenever she reaches out to touch him.

When a ghostly breath falls into her ear, it whispers, “Angela.”

She falls asleep, unafraid.


End file.
